Young Memories
by Roxis-kun
Summary: Roxis is back in his childhood as is Flay. Back then, the two met and, through a twist of fate, end up with their hearts becoming intertwined. Being young children, they don't quite understand what they are doing or what's going on. What happens when their experimentation goes too far? Rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

A dim light managed to peer through the dusty, barely covered windows. A young boy, one at no older than five or so, lie beneath a blanket made simply of old rags and bits of quilt or other material scrounged up in the house; it only held the title of house, though it deserved something much more similar to that of shack or place condemned. That was the life for those less fortunate in slums or whatever one would prefer them to be deemed. He coughed harshly, making him gasp each time the fit would end. He kept his eyes tightly closed, so tightly that it made him hurt in his head and eyes; he winced as he felt another fit coming upon him. He knew this one would kill him; he always thought that, but he never seemed to be delivered from them, from the hell he was forced to endure most every day of his life. So young and yet so ill, so deathly ill.

He gasped as another merciless fit ended. His mother, a dainty, dirty woman, stepped in. Her kind eyes locked upon him. "Roxis? I have someone who would like to see you. He just moved in with his parents. Would you like to see him?" The boy nodded his head since he couldn't force himself to speak. She smiled at him and turned to look behind her. "Come on in, dear. He doesn't mind."

A boy a little older than Roxis stepped in with fiery red hair in small spikes upon the top of his head. He stepped towards Roxis, his eyes shining with the slivers of light that reflected off them. He didn't speak to him, but instead positioned himself upon the bed, reaching out and patting him gently upon the nearest shoulder. He looked at him with curious eyes. Roxis returned the look, but it was a little weaker and his eyes were slightly glazed over. "Flay," the red-haired boy finally said, retracting his arm to reach for Roxis' hand.

Roxis eyed him a little longer before he closed them. "Roxis," he answered, taking the larger hand in his smaller, more fragile one. He had to admit, he liked the boy already; he never did get close to people so quickly, especially those he'd never had any contact with before. The two simply looked at one another, neither feeling the need to speak a single word between them. Flay leaned forward then forced himself to sit erect again, at which Roxis perked a curious brow; already he looked older than he truly was, which wouldn't have been very old at all. Roxis finally spoke up. "How old are you?" he asked, crossing his arms in a feeble attempt to look threatening, which failed miserably.

Flay reached down and ran his fingers through the blond's silky hair, beaming down at him with a foreign warmth to him from anyone besides his mother-his father had always been too busy of a man. "Seven, but I'm going to be eight soon. Dad says I'm growing up to be a big boy like him." He crossed his already rather muscular arms, but they weren't too much on his larger body.

Roxis scoffed. "Big? You're a kid, just like-" His words were suddenly haulted by a merciless cough, one that left him weezing before beginning up again. He gasped as often as he could, struggling to breathe, but nothing seemed to aid him. He would gag, begin to catch his breath, and begin coughing just as violently again.

Flay looked at him with a great amount of worry present in his youthful face. "Are you alright?" he asked, though he obviously knew the answer to his own question.

"Jus-" He halted again. Flay waited knowing there was nothing he could do. "Just...sick," he finally answered between intense, painful gasps. "I've...always...been like...this." He panted as if he'd just ran a marathon instead of just lying stationary in his bed, or what he called a bed; he'd never known anything but poverty, so he didn't think too much about it.

Flay felt a great pang in his heart as he looked at the small boy that lie in a tight ball below him, obviously suffering. "You know," he began, trying to get Roxis' attention. "When my mom or dad get sick, they do something to help each other; I've seen them do it before."

Roxis reached over to grab the pair of glasses he'd taken off the night prior-he couldn't sleep with them on, nor did he use them often as he rarely left his bed-to place them back over his eyes. Flay stopped him. "What is it? Why can't I get-" His words were halted by, not another violent fit, Flay's warm, moist lips pressing down upon Roxis' own. His eyes didn't so much as flicker, but instead closed loosely, giving him a relaxed and peaceful look, one someone would expect upon the face of the deceased. His heart raced, though he couldn't quite understand exactly what made him feel so...warm. Loved. His fingers trailed along Flay's spine and up his shoulders to his soft, spiky hair. His fingers curled inside it; his body shivered and trembled in a forbidden delight that he couldn't understand in even the most modest of ways; he didn't care. He only wanted more of this remarkable feeling.

Flay seperated them after what seemed to be an eternity. His face held a scarlet tint as did the other boy, but neither seemed to mind. He held a cocky smirk upon his prematurely masculine face. "You feel better?" he asked, tilting his head adorably to one side.

Roxis nodded. "Uh-huh. Whatever you did, it made me feel a lot better...In more than one way," he admitted, crossing his hands upon his lap. He forced himself to sit up, his back resting against the scratched headboard. "Flay..." he began, his voice shaking. "You will come back, won't you? You'll come see me again?"

Flay nodded and leaned forward, kissing him tenderly upon the forehead. "Of course. I'll come every day that I can to see you." He stood up, turning only his head to face Roxis. "I'll come see you tomorrow. Until then, you feel better." Giving not another word, he vanished from the doorway, leaving the small boy to lie down again with a fluttering heart.


	2. Chapter 2

Flay leaned against the outer wall of the house, his mind drifting onto what he'd done inside the place to the young one; though he knew it was wrong in a sense, he simply didn't care. He began to wonder exactly what it was that he'd done, but it never did seem to completely catch up with him in respect of the severity; that is, if there were any repercussions to it. He looked down as his arms dangled loosely at his sides. "I wonder...Did I do the right thing? Sure, he feels better but..." He sighed and looked up, a goofy grin spread across his face. "Oh well, now's not the time to worry about it. I guess...No, I won't see him..." He groaned. "School? Heh, no way he even goes." Feeling a little less than completely content, but close enough, he turned and made his way home, his steps heavy and slow.

He pushed open the front door, stepping inside with the utmost caution. He turned his head in each direction, taking in the not-so-familiar sight around him; he hadn't quite gotten used to all of it yet, but he knew he would eventually. He heard the muffled voices of his parents behind one of the doors, but he didn't dare to open it and see what was going on behind it; he'd made that mistake once before, which only got him a good talking to by both of his parents with his father taking the initiative. Instead, he decided to grab something from the kitchen before heading off to his room.

He went into the kitchen and grabbed a jar of peanut butter from the table-he'd set it out earlier along with one loaf of fresh bread they'd picked up on their way home the day before. He grabbed two pieces and a knife from one of the unpacked boxes near the back door. He dipped it into the jar and slathered it all over one of the bread pieces, leaving the other with nothing on it. He dropped the knife into the kitchen sink and slapped the pieces together. Feeling content with it, he turned and headed into his room, which was pretty small but large enough for him to be comfortable in it.

He sat down in the middle of the floor, munching on his peanut butter sandwich. He looked up, his eyes roaming along the bare walls, which he planned to cover with a few pictures later. He then looked at the door bearing chipping paint. He then looked down at the handle which didn't hold any luster to it. As he looked at it, he noticed that it began to turn. His father, a man who looked only to be a larger version of him, stepped in with his fiery hair messed up, springing up and around his entire head. "Son," he began, but he held his breath; Flay figured he was out of it since he had a feeling that he knew what they were doing together in the other room. "How'd your visit go? Did you make friends with her?"

Flay laughed. "Dad, he's not a girl, but a boy. Geez, get things right."

His dad didn't seem fazed by his mistake, but instead seemed proud of it somehow. "I could've sworn that your mother told me they had a daughter rather than a son. Either way, I guess you have someone to play with either way."

Flay shook his head. "No, he can't come out?"

"Why not?"

"He's sick, dad. Very sick." He looked down at the half-eaten sandwich in his hand.

"I'm certain it's just a cold or something, so don't worr-"

"No! You don't know anything!" He bit his lip as he looked into his father's shock-filled eyes. "Erm... Sorry..."

His father stepped to his side, leaning down to place a hand upon his shoulder. "Son, I'm sorry," he admitted. Getting down on one knee to try and get level with him. "I should know better than to assume. Either way, I'm certain he'll be okay. You've gotten pretty close to him so easily, haven't you?"

Flay looked at him. "You think so? I'm just worried; I don't like to see people hurt or anything, you know that."

He nodded. "Yes, I know. Just keep your chin up. As for me and your mother, we're going to work around the house for a little while, so you can go play or whatever unless we need you, alright?"

Flay nodded. "Okay." He watched his father walk out of the room, leaving him to sit alone. He groaned and stood up, wiping away the bread crumbs. He looked over at his half-made bed and smiled. He threw himself down upon it. "Now..." He chuckled. "Is the time to think."


End file.
